


Bitter Fruit

by NervousAsexual



Category: The Shadow (1994)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Sensory Overload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27605411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousAsexual/pseuds/NervousAsexual
Summary: It turns out that new-found powers and the act of driving a glass shard into a man's brain takes a lot out of a person.
Relationships: Lamont Cranston and Margo Lane, Lamont Cranston and Shiwan Khan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Bitter Fruit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simplecoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplecoffee/gifts).



She really shouldn't be surprised that Lamont--the _Shadow_ \--abandoned them in the Hotel Monolith with police on all sides and dead or near-dead henchmen scattered around. He is a vigilante, after all, and it's easier to disappear early than to hypnotize half the city into forgetting him. And there was Khan, of course. God only knew what he was going to do with him, but he'd gathered up the bleeding, blank-eyed body before he disappeared.

It's an unbelievably long night. What is she supposed to tell the police? That she was there at the request of a man who didn't officially exist, in a building that didn't exist, defusing a bomb that had her father's name written all over it? She would have to get Lamont to teach her some of his mind-clouding tricks in the future, but for now playing the part of the air-headed damsel seemed to at least calm the worst of the cops' hysteria.

When they finally let her go (at nine in the morning, the latest night she's ever had) she is informed that her father is not being released yet. Understandable. He had nearly blown up half the city, even if he didn't realize it. She hails a cab to Lamont's place. He'll know what to do.

The butler lets her in and once again she finds her way up the stairs to the master bedroom. She lets herself in, turns on the light--

He _hisses._ When the light flicks on she catches a glimpse of him curled in the far corner of the room and he hisses at her.

"Sorry!" She turns the light back off and waits for her eyes to adjust. "I'm sorry. That was an accident."

He doesn't say anything but she can feel how frantic he is. His heart is racing and his thoughts are focused on pain. A headache. A migraine? Splitting pain just behind his eyes and forehead. For a moment she can feel it too and it just about knocks her over. He's so out of it.

"Lamont," she says cautiously, and he barely seems to register the sound of her voice. _Lamont._

He winces. She starts to cross the room, stumbling over a low ottoman and stubbing her foot hard against the leg of a chair and he winces again as if he can feel it, which for all she knows he can. Even though she can hardly see in the darkness she finds her way to his side and crouches down beside him. When she puts a hand to his shoulder he jerks away.

_Margo?_

_It's just me._

He sags back against the wall, and this time he lets her touch him. His thoughts are all fragmented, scattered all over the place, but they keep returning to one thing.

_Could have been me. Could have been me. Could have..._

Cautiously she rubs circles into his back and the words change.

_Should have been me._

_What are you talking about?_

Pieces come through. Violence, war, opium. Family--no family. A voice she doesn't recognize: _You know what evil lurks in the hearts of men, for you have seen that evil in your own heart._

_Lamont, I told you, whatever you were before..._

He pulls away to lean against the wall, leaving her alone in the dark. He doesn't believe her. She knows that. He didn't believe her before; why should that change now? Instead he sits there holding his head and thinking that there was one difference between the two of them. Shiwan Khan had the weight of a long line of conquerors on his shoulders. Lamont has nothing. He can't say that he wouldn't have done the same in Khan's place.

Why, she wonders, does he think he's so similar to Khan? They're nothing alike, not beyond the mind manipulation. She can feel how badly Lamont feels about the whole thing, which should be proof enough, shouldn't it, that they are entirely different. Khan had no reservations. Lamont regrets what happened to him already, though she doesn't know why. He is--was?--a terrible person, worth nobody's pity. So why is the man he tried to kill...

Because he _liked_ him.

It's this wall of feeling that knocks her back and she's sure she must be interpreting it wrong, but even without words she can feel how much he legitimately enjoyed the man's company when they weren't trying to kill each other. Shiwan Khan was a monster and a barbarian and handsome and clever and looked great in a Brooks Brothers tie, _the bastard._

Part of her wants to laugh. Part of her wants to say _he wouldn't have thought the same about you_ but how can she know that for sure?

She stands up and goes to the bed. His thoughts follow her: _wait please stay i can't_ but she thinks back _I'm not going far_. She gathers the afghan from his bed and shows him what she's doing before she wraps it around him. Everything he can feel is out there in the open--the stabbing ache in his head, the scratchy tickle of the wool on his skin, the feel of the crocheted stitches resting roughly on his body--and it's all amplified to an unbearable level. She has to stop for a moment and compose herself. All his thoughts and feelings are right there. She sees them. She's acknowledging them. She's not letting them control her.

When she's gathered herself together she finishes wrapping the blanket around him and pulls him away from the wall. He doesn't even fight her, just falls heavily against her side and leans there. She tries to push her own feelings out there. The blanket is soft and warm. Khan is somewhere he can't hurt anyone, and maybe what's happened will have changed him. It's changed her. It's changed Lamont.

_Not for the better._

He's thinking of the knife, and the glass, the ease with which he stabbed a man. He's thinking that, though the headache is just the toll for the telekinesis he's discovered he has, he deserves all the pain he's getting.

She holds him as gently as she can. _You need to rest._

_I don't deserve it._

That's just silly. Everyone deserves rest, even Shiwan Khan.

He pauses, the cacophony in his head stilling for the briefest of moments. It's true and he knows it.

_Do you want to move to the bed?_

He can't. He isn't sure he can get up off the floor, he's still in so much pain...

_Alright. We'll stay here. Try to get some sleep, and I'll be here when you wake up._

_I don't deserve you._

She shakes her head. Arguing this now is pointless. When they're better rested they'll have to talk.

For now, though, she leans into him as he leans into her and they both wait for sleep to take them.


End file.
